


The Burglars of Bag End

by introvertebrate



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Adventure, Bilbo and Frodo go adventuring, Dwarves, Frodo - Freeform, Gandalf - Freeform, Hobbits, J R R Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit - Freeform, Tolkien, bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:32:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introvertebrate/pseuds/introvertebrate
Summary: AU where Bilbo and Frodo both return to Bag End at the end of The Lord of the Rings.Frodo encourages Bilbo to plan another adventure, but is Bilbo hiding something?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2012 in an RP group. I'll be filling in the gaps where the other writer worked on the story as I go along, as we no longer have any contact. Hope you enjoy!

After all that Bilbo had seen in his many years, the round green door of Bag End (even bedecked as it was with creeping roses and bright honeysuckle) should seem a humble sight indeed. Certainly it had not the regal splendour of Imladris, nor the stark magnificence of the Lonely Mountain. 

A simple beauty it had, that hobbit hole, but in loveliness the yellow roses, pink-soaked at their ends, could not be matched. The lawn shone in the bright sunlight like a carpet of emeralds, dotted with the white, blushing daisies. And inside lay many beautifully fitted and furnished and comfortable rooms, well-stocked pantries, oak floors, dusky with age and shiny beneath the tread. Yet a humble sight, it would be thought, if any of his fine Elf friends had beheld it. 

”Well, let them think it, then,” Bilbo said, laughing, “for my eyes never beheld such beauty. Can there not be splendour in simplicity? Why should there be more poetry for the golden crown than the copper kettle?”  
He spoke aloud - in his growing age he made a great habit of giving his thoughts voice, though there was nobody but the trees and the air to hear it.  
Perhaps, then, he had earned his reputation as one of the Shire’s queer folk; reclusive and eccentric. He was set in his habits - fond of breakfast at seven, and second breakfast at ten - a brisk walk at two and a slow stroll at dusk. 

Then despite all this he was skittish and unpredictable, inspired by the smallest thing to take himself away on an adventure. He was quite as likely to scuttle off to Rivendell or Mirkwood (entirely without preparing, or so much as a scrap of money in his pocket, let alone a pocket handkerchief) as he was to make his way down to the local brewery. 

Getting to his feet, he pottered to the window and gazed out at the slow blue afternoon. Queer as he might be, and as solitary in his ways, he enjoyed the company of few real friends in the place he called home. But today he desired a little conversation, and wondered if he might expect a visitor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An adventure?

There was a clatter and scrape at the door, and Frodo's voice came floating through the hobbit-hole. 

“Good morning, Uncle Bilbo!” he said. "Are you well?"

Bilbo turned in surprise and gave a cry of joy. “My dear boy,” he said, warmly, “I did not think to see you until the evening came.”  
With a swiftness that belied his old age, he darted forward and robbed Frodo of his cape and walking stick. “Let me take those,” he said, “and sit down, for goodness’ sake. I can make a cup of tea as well as anyone half my age.”  
He stumped crossly over to the kettle and lifted it to pour the tea. His moods were as steady and predictable as his habits, and yet from time to time a temper would surge up, quick and fiery. But Frodo smiled, for there was no real sting in his uncle’s words. Indeed, by the time he re-entered with the tea-tray, he was quite cheerful again.  
“Frodo! Stop daydreaming, my lad. Sit down and rest your feet.” Then, suddenly anxious, he said, “Oh, Frodo! - I hope you are not hungry! I have already breakfasted, and cleared away the plates. Indeed, and I don’t believe there is a single scrap of bacon left.”  
His gaze fell from his nephew’s beaming face to the bags that now littered the room. “But surely you have brought home half the market with you,” he exclaimed. “I hope none of it is perishable, Frodo. We cannot possibly take so many things on a journey - if you are still of the mind to go.”

"Oh no," Frodo said, smiling. "I have been with the Gamgees. Rosie makes the most delightful breakfast - best in all the Shire, Sam says, and I must say, I quite agree.' 

Bilbo sniffed. As a keen cook, the best breakfasts remark had nettled him, and for a moment he rather felt that Frodo might prefer to go adventuring with the Gamgees. They are quite welcome to him, he thought, ungrateful wretch. 

It was a bitter, envious, and thoroughly unpleasant sort of thought, and despite the warm morning he felt a chill break out on his arms. How horrid he felt. Indeed, he had seldom felt so unsettled since he had given up the Ring, many years before. Frightened at the pit of sorrow snarling in his belly, he cooled his tea with his breath, and tried to calm himself. Sharing a loved one presented a thousand heartaches, and Frodo - being sweet-natured and affable - was rather popular, and his company much in demand. 

Bilbo was fond of Frodo’s young friends; over the years he had entertained them at Bag End countless times. And yet sometimes, in those moments when the Ring’s old cry sighed in his ears, he could not bear the thought of the time they spent with Frodo; in the darkest part of his heart he felt they robbed him of his nephew.  
His eye fell on Frodo, who, unaware of Bilbo’s thoughts, looked fit to die of his excitement. Suddenly and completely Bilbo relented, and all his anger melted away. It would not do to be jealous, he decided. Of course it was natural to be concerned for Frodo, but it was not the place of a guardian to begrudge his young charge.

He drank a little of his tea to hide the remnants of his sadness, and when he lifted his head he looked contented once more. “Yes, our adventure,” he said, and as he spoke his spirits rose.  
“My dear Frodo,” he continued. “As you know, it was once my intention to settle in Rivendell, to never again lay eyes on the Shire or any of its inhabitants, no, not even my precious Bag End.”  
He paused, as though to let Frodo speak, but no reply came, only the twitter of the birds. Bilbo resolved himself to be candid.  
“There was a darkness in me when I last left the Shire,” he said, and although his nephew did not speak, he thought he sensed a shiver pass over Frodo’s face. “You know of it - though I am sorry that you do. That darkness was the Ring."  
He looked at Frodo, who stared and stared and still said nothing.  
"When I made the trip to Rivendell that was to be my final journey,” Bilbo said, “I travelled not only in pursuit of adventure and the unknown, but also in flight from the pull that the Ring had on me. Only Gandalf guessed of my true motives, and even then I do not believe he ever fully understood the magnitude of my fears. I was haunted by the Ring, Frodo, poisoned by it. More than anyone knew. More than I would let anyone know.”

Frodo gnawed on his lower lip. He said nothing, but looked as though he was thinking many things.

It was an ill-fitting conversation for a fair summer morning, and Bilbo laughed - in the yellow warmth his worries seemed foolish, and at once a gladness rose up in him, for nothing could spoil the sweet, glad loveliness of the Shire, nor the dear face of his favourite nephew. 

“But Frodo - I see you are concerned,” he said, smiling. “Don’t bite your lip to ribbons on my account. I do not speak to make you feel worry or sorrow, but only to say that we have lived in the shadow of the Ring for long enough. I should like us to have an adventure that is not defined by rings, by evil, by hard lessons. Let there be tales told of Bilbo and Frodo that have nothing to do with that Ring - that worthless bit of tin.”

As he spoke, the old quick fire flared up in his eyes. Gone were the weary cares of a Baggins, gone his stooped back and his papery skin. He felt it once more; the Tookish longing for mountains and roads, for meat roasted over a wavering campfire, for stony beds, for bracken, for danger, for magic, for adventure.  
“We must away, Frodo,” he cried. “We must let the Road sweep us away."


End file.
